


People Will Say We're in Love

by bookjunkiecat



Series: People Will Talk [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Very Important Question, Established Relationship, Greg let's his mouth run away with him, Holidaying in The Maldives, M/M, Mummy Holmes is A Bit Not Good, Romance, Schmoop, Spending the weekend at The Cottage, Talking about first sexual experiences, Unequivocally happy ending, difficult parents, sibling relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:06:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29141964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: Despite their really quite awful mums, the lad's romance progresses beautifully. They're pretty good at ignoring other people's opinions of their relationship--but Greg takes it a step further and puts Mummy Holmes well in her place with his irrepressible sense of humour and willingness to shock. As they enjoy their six month anniversary in The Maldives, Mycroft moves up his plans of asking Greg A Very Important Question.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Mystrade - Relationship
Series: People Will Talk [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2135193
Comments: 12
Kudos: 82





	People Will Say We're in Love

**Author's Note:**

> ***CONTENT WARNING***  
> ***TRIGGER WARNING***
> 
> Please see the end notes for spoilers if you are worried about the insensitive way an ignorant Mrs Holmes talks about her son's orientation, and the searching questions she asks Greg. If you'd like to skip that bit entirely, you will be alerted by *** at the beginning and end of the scene.

The sun had set early and the street was gloomy in pockets between the arc lamps. The only other light came from the still-open shops and cafes, from passing cars, from the blue flicker of innumerable television sets behind the blinds of the windows overlooking the road. Greg leaned on the buzzer and when the slightly hollow sound of one of his sister’s voices--Kelly or Chloe, Mycroft could never tell them apart--answered, he called that it was them. The electronic lock buzzed loudly and Greg jerked the heavy fire-proof door open, holding its weight with his body to let Mycroft walk past. Even in the unpleasant fluorescent light of the foyer, he glowed like an angel out of Botticelli. 

“It was kind of your mother to invite us to dinner,” Mycroft said, giving his boyfriend’s hand a reassuring press. Greg’s beautiful sharp jawline was bunched with barely suppressed irritation and they hadn’t even made it into the flat. 

“She’s just lookin’ for another chance to try ‘n break us up,” Greg replied sourly.

“I’m sure she’s extending an olive branch,” he soothed. He wasn’t sure of any such thing, actually, but there was no need riling Greg’s already belligerent mood. “Dinner will be lovely and it will afford me a chance to get better acquainted with your sisters.”

“It’ll probably be beans on toast, give you a taste of ‘ow the other ‘alf lives.” Greg stabbed the lift button and crossed his arms, falling back against the lift wall. It was a certain sign that he was growing angry, when he dropped his aitches.

“I like beans on toast,” Mycroft reminded him mildly.

Greg smiled a little, reluctant. “‘Course you do, cuz there ain’t no side to you, is there? Wish  _ she  _ could see that. But does she?  _ Nooo,  _ she just thinks you’re a gold-plated poofter, out for my innocence.”

“I am a gold-plated poofter, I suppose,” Mycroft mused, stroking his chin. He watched Greg’s expression in the fingerprint-smeared chrome door, saw the grin begin to stretch over his features. “Sadly I think you threw your innocence away some time ago.”

“Out the window with Ben Hargreaves when we were fourteen,” Greg agreed cheerfully, giving Mycroft a wink. “Had it off in the closet in the room he shared wiv his bruvvers. One of ‘em opened the door to see what the ruckus was and out we tumbled, trousers around our ankles.”

The lift doors opened, admitting them to the eighteenth floor of the large block of council estates where Greg’s mother, his sisters, and his niece lived. “You literally came out of the closet,” Mycroft snorted. He grinned at Greg, “Of  _ course  _ you shucked off your virginity like an unfashionable coat at a young age. Not all of us were so fortunate.”

“How’d you lose it then?”

“At seventeen, in a series of encounters in the choir stalls with the elder Deacon’s youngest son. He was a splendid kisser,” Mycroft recalled fondly.

“Bloody ‘ell,  _ seventeen?”  _ Greg stopped in front of his mum’s door, looking appalled. “You didn’t ‘ave it off until you was  _ seventeen?” _

“You’ve seen pictures, darling. I was all legs and ears, lugging around volumes of Keats and Lord Byron, wearing an old waistcoat of my uncle’s that I fancied made me look like one of the Romantics. It’s a miracle anyone wanted to have it off with me at all.”

“Now that I can’t imagine,” Greg murmured, slithering his arms around Mycroft and giving his bum a pinch. He nibbled his jaw, “Sexy tall drink of water like you.”

They were kissing when the door was jerked open and Crystal Lestrade stood scowling at them. “Can’t you keep your hands off of him for two seconds?”

It wasn’t clear which of them she was addressing, but Greg took it upon himself to answer, giving her a hug and announcing, “Not really. I’da tossed him off in the car but he insists I use both hands when I’m driving.”

Mycroft choked back a snort and gave him a reproving look a odds with his twitching lips. “Crystal,” he greeted politely, “Lovely to see you again. Thank you for having us over.”

She actually harrumphed at him. Nineteen when she had Greg, Crystal was actually a few years younger than Mycroft, a fact that she never failed to point out, and still a very attractive woman. Greg had apparently inherited his coloring from his absent father, but his pouty lips, his striking bone structure, came from his mother. Her naturally auburn hair was salon-streaked with blonde, her make-up a trifle heavy, but suited to her big hazel eyes and creamy skin. She favoured velour track bottoms and tight white t-shirts, or dresses just a trifle too short for a woman her age. Tonight she wore a purple dress with a wide, scooped neck, printed with big cheery daisies, which did not match the unwelcoming look on her face.

“Howareya, Kells?” Greg called to his eldest sister, who was changing her fussy daughter’s fragrant nappies. Mycroft knew little about children, but he rather thought little Angelica should be toilet-trained already. “Gotta do that right out here?” Mycroft gave his hand a squeeze, knowing Greg was embarrassed by his sister’s behaviour.

A slimmer, sharper version of her mum, her hair enhanced by a bottle to a darker red, with Greg’s deep brown eyes (which held none of his sweetness), Kelly gave him a sneer, “It’s our ‘ouse, innit? What? Embarrassed in front of your posh boyfriend?”

“‘Course not,” Greg denied. “But it’s a bit of a pong, innit?”

“Smells like poo,” Megan, the youngest, announced loudly, bouncing into the room. At thirteen she wasn’t fully developed, and still had a coltish awkward quality which endeared her to Mycroft--helped immensely by the fact that she was the most like her brother in appearance and manner. Flinging her arms around her brother, she gave him a rapturous hug, “Gawd, I missed you!”

“Megs,” Greg said fondly, bending back til her feet left the ground and she broke into giggles, “I missed you.”

“Megs and Gregs,” drawled Chloe, from where she was sprawled on the sofa, flicking through her mobile. “Peas in a pod.” She smiled at them, “Scuse me not gettin’ up, I’m knackered.” Chloe, twenty-one and vivacious, was a part-time barmaid attending cosmetology school. Her carrot red hair was platinum this week, and marceled. She waved, “Howareya, Mike?”

“Very well, thank you,” he responded, warmly returning Megan’s hug. He sat on the arm of the sofa and asked Chloe about her course. He found her a little flashy and far too obsessed with celebrity culture, but she was easier to get along with than her elder sister or her mother. Megan had dragged Greg off to her room to show him something and Crystal was banging around in the kitchenette, the smell of her cigarette stronger than whatever they were to be served.

Kelly--without washing her hands--had released a wiggling Angelica to plop in front of the telly and was lighting her own cigarette. Perching in one of the squashy leather recliners crowding the small lounge, she picked up a gossip mag and ignored them. Mycroft wished for a cigarette of his own (he’d given them up again), a strong drink, and a paracetamol. He also wished rather desperately for Greg to return, but he’d faced tougher opponents than this and triumphed. 

Of course, he had UN sanctions backing him in the most hairy cases.

At last Greg shouted for him from the back of the flat, and Mycroft excused himself to Chloe, who smiled briefly before returning to her mobile, and to Kelly, who ignored him. The siblings were in the small room Megan, Kelly and Angelica shared, where secondhand furniture jostled for space. Over Megan’s bed, spread with a sparkly purple duvet, were blu-tacked dozens of drawings, all done by her. “Lookit the new art our girl's done, Mycroft!”

Mycroft joined him in admiring and praising. Megan showed a definite talent, and Mycroft resolved to present her with good pastels, pencils and paper for her upcoming birthday. He’d had Anthea enter reminders for important dates concerning Greg’s family in his personal calendar. If memory served, Megan would be turning fourteen just after he and Greg’s planned holiday.

He smiled to himself, thinking of the very special gift he had purchased for Greg. A touch of nerves shook him, worrying that perhaps his boyfriend wouldn’t want to bind himself permanently to a man nearly twice his age. Then Greg threw him an adoring look, rubbing Mycroft’s back absently as Megan flipped through her school papers to show them a sketch she’d done during her free period. His doubts receded; all would be well...Greg loved him as much as he loved Greg. Things were really as close to perfect as they could be.

“‘s ready!” Crystal shouted, “‘at’s if you’re not too good to eat beans on toast, your lordships!”

As Greg threw him an exasperated, knowing look, Mycroft bit back a weary sigh. Well, what was perfection without a trial or two for spice?

  
  
  
  
  
  


* * *

“A bloody house party in the country,” Greg grumbled, flinging jeans on the bed, “All weekend at some draughty castle, with geezers in tennis whites drinking fuckin’ sherry and lookin’ through me like I’m made’a glass. Or no--they’ll probably have a maid followin’ me around so’s I don’t make off with the family silver.”

“It’s going to be less like a Noel Coward play than you imagine,” Mycroft said dryly, neatly folding yet another of his sinfully soft cashmere jumpers. Stupidly expensive for jumpers. But really, really soft. Greg was always borrowing them. Mycroft wanted to buy him some of his own, but Greg preferred to wear Mycroft’s. They were a little too big, and they smelled like him, and they made Greg feel like he belonged with Mycroft, belonged  _ to  _ Mycroft. “I wouldn’t ask it of you, only it _ is  _ my father’s eighty-seventh birthday. And if I  _ don’t _ ask you, it looks like I don’t want you there. Which I assure you is very much not the case.”

“I know,” Greg said, abashed. He was being a bell-end and he knew it. But the idea of an entire weekend with Mycroft’s rich family and his rich family friends made him feel like he was going to break out in hives. “Just wish I wasn’t meetin’ your lot for the first time when we’re gonna be there all weekend. What if they hate me?”

Mycroft dropped the pyjamas he was packing (and just why would he need those? They never bothered with pyjamas) and immediately wrapped comforting arms around Greg, nuzzling his throat, “First, they won’t hate you. My parents are actually fairly nice people, if a bit tiresome. Second, I’m sorry they’ve been away all this time so you couldn’t meet them under less trying circumstances.”

“‘s alright,” Greg mumbled, rubbing his nose against Mycroft’s firm chest. 

“Third,” Mycroft ticked off points on his fingers, which were linked behind Greg’s back, “my family does not own a castle. Rather they live in a rabbit warren of an old place with rising damp, abysmal Wi-Fi, and not enough loos. There's no maid, you won’t be accused of stealing the silver because this isn’t the eighteen-eighties, and because there isn’t any silver. Oh, no, I misspoke, there’s a terribly ugly epergne in the dining room which Father inherited and Mother hates. She’d probably put you in her will if you took the thing.”

Greg laughed, grinning up into Mycroft’s beloved face. “How’d’you always know just what to say when me nerves are on edge?”

“Well…” Mycroft appeared to think, then kissed him. “I suppose it’s because I know  _ you,  _ my darling.” He swatted him lightly on the arse, “Now, finish packing and then come take a bath with me. I have a bottle of really nice red breathing, and if I’m not mistaken, we still have some of that salted caramel gelato you adore in the freezer.”

“Great!” Greg threw some socks toward his duffle then froze. “Wait--did you say the Wi-Fi is shit?!”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
  


It was true. Mycroft’s parents were perfectly nice, and perfectly polite, but spending more than an hour with them was a test of Greg’s nerves and his company manners. Mr Holmes would forget he’d told them an anecdote and launch into it with enthusiasm. That had nothing to do with his age; both Mycroft and Mrs Holmes (“call me Cynthia) assured him he'd always been that way. Mycroft’s mum was a bit hard of hearing, and had a habit of asking disconcerting questions, but she was a lot nicer to him than his mum was to Mycroft, so Greg tried to bear up with it.

An ancient couple named Ruth and Freddy, who looked as if they’d been carved out of knobby old potatoes, were fellow guests, as was an elderly professor of music who could talk of nothing but operettas. A youngish woman turned out to be Mycroft’s cousin Petra. Greg liked her best; she had a tart tongue, a wicked wit, and reminded him a bit of Anthea. Mycroft’s brother Sherlock had been invited to spend the entire weekend at “The Cottage,” but failed to show until Saturday afternoon. He passed it off as forgetfulness, but Greg overheard Mycroft arguing with him about his behaviour. 

The party for Edgar Holmes’s birthday was to be a buffet supper and after everyone gathered to play bridge. There were quite a few guests in addition to those staying at The Cottage for the weekend, and they noisily broke into foursomes, heading for the tables set up in the lounge and the draughty drawing room. Greg, who didn’t know how to play bridge and didn’t want to learn, threw Mycroft a panicked look, but his boyfriend took his hand. “Come on,” he whispered, leading him through the kitchen and out to the rambling back garden, “I loathe cards, and I loathe most of those people. How does a walk sound?”

“God, yeah, no cards. A walk sounds great.”

Holding hands, they wandered through the garden, which was mostly lumpy lawn and slightly bedraggled flowering bushes. Here and there solar lights lit the way down a pebbled path which badly needed maintenance. “Christ, your parents could fall and break a hip out here!”

“They don’t spend much time out of doors,” Mycroft mused, “I’ve never understood why they retired to the countryside. Quiet village life was never their cup of tea. Which probably explains why they’re always traveling.”

“Still,” Greg commented, looking around in the fading light, “It’s kinda nice out here.”

“Private,” Mycroft murmured, swinging him around behind a ramshackle wooden arch covered in unchecked wisteria. “Not that any of them can see this far.” He advanced, pushing Greg back against the wood structure with his bigger body. He bent his head and grazed his lips over Greg’s neck.

“C’n I help you?” Greg asked, bemused, as his boyfriend slid his zip down.

“Just stand there, my dear, I have this all in hand.” Mycroft huffed, “So to speak.”

“Are you really about to toss me off with a house full of people just steps away?”

“Ah, let me see...yes. Any objections?”

“Fuck no,” Greg breathed happily. Maybe house parties weren’t so bad after all.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
*******

"So Gregory," whenever Mycroft's mum called him _Gregory_ it gave Greg a squirmy, embarrassed feeling. _Your son calls me that when he wants to spank me and have me call him Daddy,_ he thought wildly, and tried not to giggle. "Mycroft hardly _ever_ brings a boyfriend to meet us."

"Doesn't he?" 

"No." Mrs Holmes (he had a really hard time even thinking of her as Cynthia, much less calling her that) regarded him with bright, birdlike curiosity. "It's such a  _ treat  _ to get to know you."

"Ah." Fuck, where was Mycroft? How long could his stupid phone call take? “Yeah.”

"I hope you feel  _ comfortable _ with us. Did Mycroft tell you? We've never had any trouble with his being a gay." She smiled brightly. "Not that he's very,  _ you know." _

Greg rather hysterically reached for his coffee cup and found it tragically empty. Where was his coffee? Where was Mycroft? Where was anyone else? 

"He had certain tendencies as a boy, but then, his father is rather artistic and  _ I  _ thought perhaps it was the French influence coming through. Oh! I'm sorry, Lestrade, that's French, isn't it?"

_ French by way of Hackney,  _ he thought, a touch hysterically. 

"Of course, there are all sorts. I never can keep all the letters strai--um, sorted. In my day there was just regular people and fairies--" 

As she stumbled to a halt, Greg shoved a slice of toast in his mouth, hoping he might choke on crumbs and flee. No such luck. He would be stuck at this table, in this god awful one-sided conversation, for the rest of time. Like the undiscovered tenth circle of Hell. 

"Do you, let me see, what is it? Oh yes. Do you top or bottom? Because I can't  _ quite  _ see Mycroft--" 

*******

"Mother!" Mycroft snapped awfully from the doorway. Greg wanted to fling his empty coffee cup at him. He wanted to fling himself at him. _"Did you_ _really just ask--"_

_ Blimey,  _ thought Greg, seeing the look of towering outrage in Mycroft's eye, and jumped in with both feet. "I've done both, so if you're lookin' to," he smiled blindingly, "spice up your love life, Cindy, I can tell you some great positions that will be easy on you and Eddie's knees. But that's not all you need to consider. Lube, o' course, but it's preppin' your arse hole first that's  _ really  _ important--" 

He dared to look away from Mrs Holmes's ashen face but the doorway was empty. Biting his lip, Greg wondered if he'd gone too far. Mycroft was probably pitching his duffle out on the drive that very minute. Promising to send her some links, Greg went in search of his (hopefully still) boyfriend. 

The first place he looked was their bedroom, and he found Mycroft, back to the room, staring out the window. His body was tense and he had one hand to his mouth. Greg eased the door shut and stood with his back against it, heart in his mouth. He stuck his sweaty hands in his jean pockets. "Mycroft…are you...how angry are you?" 

Mycroft swung around, eyes leaking tears, and Greg's heart lurched into his throat. "You brilliant, wild, unspeakably wonderful man," Mycroft breathed, shaking with what Greg realized was helpless laughter. "Her  _ face!"  _ Sagging with relief, knees gone momentarily weak, Greg pressed his back against the door, grateful for its solid presence. "You called her  _ Cindy! _ " Mycroft whooped. 

Suddenly released from his fear, Greg ran across the room and jumped at Mycroft, who caught him, stumbling slightly. Mycroft grunted, and adjusted his grip as Greg wound his legs around his waist. They kissed wildly, giggling. Mycroft staggered over to the bed and they fell onto the creaky old mattress with a horrible screech, which only made them laugh harder. "Oh god," Mycroft gasped, "That was possibly the most fun I've ever had in my parent's house."

"Now that is a shame," Greg purred, rolling them so he was under Mycroft. "Why don't we see just how loud this bed gets, eh?" 

The answer was, very loud. 

  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


The look of sheer awed amazement on Greg’s face when the plane banked over the Indian Ocean would have made the entire trip worth it. He was full of boyish excitement over everything, never having flown first class, never having traveled so far from Britain. Mycroft was deeply thankful he had been able to dip deep into his savings for this--he wanted to make the experience perfect.

Everything was perfect--or nearly so. True, Mycroft did get a bit of a sunburn on his shoulders (Greg was most solicitous in smoothing aloe into his freckled skin every day and every night. If places other than Mycroft’s shoulders received some attention...well, the author will not disclose such private information.)

Greg had the happy knack of appreciating every experience to the full, and thus their holiday was a rousing success. Many the day was spent sightseeing, sun-bathing, snorkeling, sailing and feasting deliciously. Come night, they would take a lazy, cool shower together and spend hours feasting deliciously on one another’s body. It was really surprising, Mycroft found, how invigorating a young lover was, despite the fact that he was getting far less sleep than usual. But then, it was heaven to sleep at last with Greg curled to his chest, curly head over Mycroft’s heart, or with Greg plastered to his back, sprawling limbs slowly edging Mycroft out of bed, until he had to shift his drifting lover back to center. Even the night they got rather stupendously plastered and embarrassed themselves at karaoke and stumbled home weaving, their arms about one another’s waists, and Greg fell into bed with sandy feet and snored like a freight train in Mycroft’s ear for what remained of the night...he was happy.

“Megs is dead jealous,” Greg observed from where he was sprawled in front of the deck on the chaise longue in his still damp and deliciously brief bathing bottoms. He had been updating his Instagram daily, and texting his sisters. He tossed his phone aside and stretched. “Course, who wouldn’t be jealous of paradise?”

Mycroft was rummaging in his shaving kit, but he paused to smile at his partner, “Perhaps we can bring her here as a celebration when she gets her A levels?”

Greg’s eyes were bright as stars, “You really think you’ll wanna be with me in another couple’a years?”

Mycroft dropped the bag and stared at him, “My darling, I’ve clearly done a piss-poor job of telling you how I feel if you don’t believe this is forever.”

Sniffing just a bit, Greg wiped a hasty hand over his eyes, “Naw,” he said gruffly, “You’re amazing, treacle, I just...god, gotta pinch myself sometimes to think this is my life. That  _ you’re  _ my life.”

Fiddling for a moment with something in his hand, Mycroft swiftly reviewed and abandoned all thoughts he’d had of the special dinner in the private cabana on the beach during their last night. He strode across the room and dropped to sit beside Greg, who rolled happily into his arms. Squeezing him until Greg squeaked and laughed a protest, Mycroft pulled back just enough that he could stare into Greg’s eyes. “Sweetheart...you are forever, for me. I truly never dreamed I could be this happy, have this kind of life, before you. I want it to be forever.” He presented his hand to Greg, unfurled his fingers slowly, and watched Greg’s eyes widen before flying questioningly to his.

The platinum band, channel set with yellow diamonds, gleamed softly in the fading light of the sunset, but the precious stones were no more brilliant than Greg’s eyes, the natural beauty of their surroundings no more breathtaking than the man in his arms. “Mycroft…” A tear spilled loose and streaked down his cheek, _ “Treacle.” _

“Greg Lestrade, will you do me the unutterable honour of becoming my lover forever more, my partner in life and in crime? Will you be my husband?”

Laughing joyously, Greg flung himself at Mycroft’s chest, squeezing the breath out of him, “Oh god, treacle, yeah, yes. Yes! I’ll marry you!” Tumbling, sliding, down onto the chaise, they rolled in one another’s arms, laughing and kissing, and crying, just a little. Wiping his eyes, Greg cradled Mycroft’s face in his damp palms, “I’ll try to make you as happy as you always make me. I promise you won’t regret this.”

“As if I ever could,” Mycroft breathed. They sank into the embrace of the narrow chaise and made tender love in the flaming light of the sinking sun.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> *!*!*!*!*!*! SPOILER ALERT!*!*!*!*!*
> 
> SPOILER:  
> While visiting the Holmes parents, Greg gets caught at table alone with Mrs Holmes and endures a very uncomfortable interrogation. She has an ignorant (but not intentionally cruel or insensitive) attitude toward "gays" and ask inappropriate questions. Don't worry, Greg puts her nicely in her place and all is well. Please contact me in the comments or on Twitter (@savvyblunders) if you are concerned and need more details. If you'd like to skip that section, I've put *** before and after the scene. Love you, darlings <3


End file.
